


Gymnophoria

by Netgirl_y2k



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Adultery, Background Margaery/Tommen, Background Sansa/Willas, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Outdoor Sex, Pregnant Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 05:10:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2216943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Netgirl_y2k/pseuds/Netgirl_y2k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sense that someone is mentally undressing you, or that a person is viewing you naked even though you are clothed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gymnophoria

"Be discreet," Willas had once told her. "I will not take Highgarden to war for you; nor for my sweet sister should her kingly husband find out and decide to take her head."

Sansa was trying to heed his words. 

Margaery had certainly done nothing improper at the feast to welcome the queen back to her childhood home. But Margaery had always been able to make Sansa feel exposed, and every glance and half-smile that the queen sent her way made Sansa feel like she was naked before all of Highgarden.

The rose queen stood and announced her intention to take a walk through the gardens. Her gaggle of ladies-in-waiting stood to follow, and Margaery waved them back down. “I have been walking the grounds of Highgarden since I was very small, have no fear; stay, and enjoy the hospitality.” 

Margaery turned the full force of her smile on Sansa. “Perhaps my good-sister would care to join me?”

Sansa flushed despite herself. She looked around for Willas, only to find that her lord husband had already retired to his solar with several of his bannermen.

There was little love between Sansa and her Tyrell husband, but there was a measure of respect. He knew of the affair, and he was not such a hypocrite as to order her to stop; not when he had his Dornishwoman. But Sansa was not so cruel as to leave with his sister right under his nose.

"I would be honoured, your grace," she said, rising to join Margaery.

Sansa and Margaery walked under the moon and stars, with the scent of night-blooming roses in the air. Margaery listed the various castles throughout the Crownlands and the Reach where she’d recently been a guest.

The queen had spent little and less time in King’s Landing since she’d given the king an heir.

"The king married too young," Margaery had once told Sansa. "I remind him of a time when he was no king, but only a round little boy playing with kittens. My presence embarrasses him."

Sansa had found it difficult at first to believe that sweet-natured Tommen could be a bad husband, but Willas Tyrell was a good and kind man, and a just lord; a husband did not have to be cruel or unkind for a marriage to be unhappy.

Margaery caught Sansa’s hand. “Follow me.”

"Into the maze? In the dark?"

The moonlight caught Margaery’s grin. “I know this maze well—” so did Sansa; there was the stump of a heart tree at the centre where she sometimes prayed “—and in the dark no-one would be surprised were we to get lost.”

Sansa allowed Margaery to pull her along by the hand. The tall hedges blocked out much of the moonlight; Sansa could only see Margaery in outline, but she could feel the warmth of her palm and the jump of her pulse where they held hands.

They took a left, and another left, then a right. Margaery drew Sansa into a small courtyard. It was a dead-end as far as the maze was concerned; but the light was better, revealing a square of overgrown grass and flowering weeds. 

Margaery turned on her heel and tugged Sansa down into a kiss. “I’ve missed this,” she said against Sansa’s mouth. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too," whispered Sansa, just before Margaery caught her bottom lip between her teeth, twined her arms around Sansa's neck, and deepened the kiss. 

Willas only came to Sansa’s bed once a month; a few days after her moon’s blood confirmed that she was not carrying the next lord of Highgarden. Her lord husband tried to be gentle, he tried to be quick; but desire played little part in their couplings, kissing less so.

Margaery sank to her knees, and Sansa went willingly with her. She trailed kisses along Sansa’s jaw and down her throat; she sealed her lips over Sansa’s pulse-point and sucked. Sansa clutched at Margaery, and made a note to ask her maids to prepare gowns with matching scarves for the next few days.

Sansa lay back on the grass as the queen of the seven kingdoms kissed along the neckline of her gown, her hands sliding over her bodice. Early spring in Highgarden was too brisk for them to strip themselves bare; besides, the queen of the seven kingdoms and the lady of Highgarden did not generally wear gowns that were easy to slip in and out of.

"I—" Sansa began, as Margaery slipped from her arms.

The queen took hold of Sansa’s ankle, and pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee; her skirts became impossibly tangled and bunched as Margaery gently pushed her thighs apart.

Sansa tensed slightly, as she always did. She did not enjoy anything… _inside_...when it came to sex; a preference that Margaery did not even pretend to understand, but after a few early, abortive attempts to convince her otherwise, it was a preference that she indulged Sansa in.

Margaery pressed her mouth between Sansa’s legs. Sansa groaned and arched her back; she had missed _this_. She fisted one of her hands in her skirts, and the other in Margaery’s soft curls.

She remembered another encounter in one of Highgarden’s gardens; an arbour, that time, in the sunshine. Margaery had look up at Sansa, her chin wet and shiny with the evidence of Sansa’s pleasure; she’d flashed her a positively wolfish smile and said, “Lady Stark, I never would have guessed you for a hair puller.”

There was only so long they could claim to have gotten lost for, even in the dark, and the queen was efficient about bringing Sansa to her peak with her mouth.

Afterwards, Sansa made to press Margaery down onto the grass, but the queen caught her wrists and gently said, “Not tonight, sweetling. I have my moon’s blood still.”

"Oh." Sansa blushed, and drew back. "Yes, of course."

"You returning to the castle with blood on your hands would only lend credence to those rumours that Starks turn into wolves at night. Of course," Margaery continued lightly, "most people would find it easier to believe that you sprout fur and howl at the moon than to believe that two married ladies do what we do together."

Sansa murmured an assent at that; people’s unwillingness to credit that affairs such as theirs were even possible had saved them from discovery more than once.

Margaery must have noticed Sansa's silence since her talk of moon blood, for she pressed her palm to the flat of Sansa’s belly, and said, not unkindly, “Still nothing?”

"No." Willas did not blame her wholly; his mistress had given him no children either. "It matters less than it once did. Garlan has children, and House Tyrell is extensive. And I am no longer the key to the North."

Winterfell was Arya’s now, and her sons’ after her.

When Margaery had been heavy with child Sansa had been able to visit her on Dragonstone during her confinement. The babe had been driving her to distraction with arousal, and Margaery had thrown caution to the wind and taken Sansa as her bed maid.

Sansa had been fascinated by the changes to Margaery's body; both because she had already begun to suspect that this was as close to childbearing as she would ever come herself, and because she was intrigued by the new reactions she could draw from her lover's tightly wound and newly sensitive body. 

One night, after Sansa had exhausted Margaery exploring her body with her hands and mouth, Margaery had lazily commented, “They say your sister’s children were fathered by wolves; it’s a shame I can’t rightly claim this one was fathered by a lion.”

If half the things Arya had written to Sansa of her boys were true, then it was no wonder that all the North believed that they'd been sired by wolves. But, no: "Arya got one by a Dornishman, the other by a blacksmith. But the version with the wolves makes for a better story," Sansa conceded. 

Margaery cupped Sansa’s cheek, pulling her back into the present. “You looked lost, sweetling. What were you thinking of?”

"My sister, her children. A time when I wanted nothing more than to marry Willas and give him sons."

"I wished to be queen; I believed that I would rule the world through my husband, and be beloved by all. It is the curse of we summer children - we grow up."

"Yes," said Sansa, turning her cheek to Margaery’s kiss. "Winter comes for us all."

Sansa stood, her skirts falling artlessly into place. She left the queen of the seven kingdoms sitting on the grass with her lips swollen and her gown in disarray, like a despoiled maiden from a cautionary tale.

Sansa doubted that she looked any more respectable; but they’d had long practice at getting themselves neatened up without their usual armies of handmaidens and servants.

"Your grace," said Sansa, offering Margaery her hand, "I hope you enjoy your stay at Highgarden."

"Lady Stark—" Margaery pressed a kiss to the back of Sansa’s hand before accepting it and rising "—it’s always a true pleasure."


End file.
